“We both know why we got together tonight.”

“Mutual attraction,” Sierra whispered. A blush stained her smooth alabaster skin, and Ben would have bet anything she’d never come on to a stranger before.

“I’m definitely attracted.” He was intrigued, too, and determined to get to the bottom of the puzzle she presented. “Except I’d love some conversation. For me, there’s got to be more than lust at first sight.”

The pinkish color on her cheeks deepened to a rosy red before she tossed her hair back and held his gaze. The latter looked like an effort for her. “Then tell me about yourself,” she asked.

“What do you want to know?”

Her delicate shoulders rose, then fell. “What are you doing in Indigo Springs?”

“Creating memories—good ones, I hope.”

Dear Reader,

Five of my relatives are journalists who work for three different daily newspapers. The count would be six if I hadn’t abandoned the trade years ago to pursue writing novels. Any one of us could pontificate about the importance of truth. But should the truth always come out?

That question led me to create the character of Ben Nash, who receives an anonymous e-mail that gives him a chance to unlock the decades-old mystery of how his mother died. Ben is an investigative reporter driven to uncover and report the all-important truth. Will the fact that he’s falling in love with the daughter of the man who could be responsible for his mother’s death change anything?

An Honorable Man is the fourth of the five books in my RETURN TO INDIGO SPRINGS series. I hope you’ll enjoy revisiting familiar characters and meeting new ones.

Until next time,

Darlene Gardner

P.S. Visit me on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.

An Honorable Man
Darlene Gardner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

While working as a newspaper sportswriter, Darlene Gardner realized she’d rather make up quotes than rely on an athlete to say something interesting. So she quit her job and concentrated on a fiction career that landed her at Harlequin/Silhouette Books, where she’s written for the Temptation, Duets and Intimate Moments lines before finding a home at Superromance. Please visit Darlene on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.

To print journalists.

May they survive.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

DO YOU KNOW WHAT really happened to your mother?

Ben Nash stared at the words on the computer screen. Blood rushed to his ears, obliterating the background noise in the Pittsburgh Tribune newsroom. It felt as though a vise gripped his heart, stopping his blood from circulating.

His mother had died nineteen years ago in a fall from a cliff in a Pocono Mountain town called Indigo Springs when Ben was twelve years old. He’d always been told it was an accident.

The return address on the e-mail was mountaindweller-blaine@yahoo.com. His mother had never used her married surname of Nash, preferring to be known as Allison Blaine.

He clicked the e-mail closed with a trembling hand and scanned his in-box, identifying a second message from the same sender. The subject header was identical: Your Mother. He sucked in a breath and pressed the button on his mouse.

Why wasn’t Dr. Ryan Whitmore investigated?

The Whitmore name was unfamiliar, as were most things associated with Indigo Springs aside from pain and loss. Ben’s maternal grandparents had retired to the town just months before the ill-fated accident to help friends start up a restaurant. After the tragedy they’d fled Indigo Springs, unable to deal with daily reminders of what had happened.

For Ben, though, the memories were ever present. An image of his mother, with her brown eyes warm with love and her lips curving into a tender smile, was imprinted on his mind as indelibly as an etching.

He checked the date and time at the top right-hand corner of the e-mail. Friday, 9:15 a.m. The second contact had been sent just minutes after the first. A scant hour ago. He hit Reply and typed a message of his own: Who are you?

Within moments, the e-mail popped back into his in-box with a Failure Notice heading. He scrolled through it, picking out the words undeliverable and user doesn’t have a yahoo.com account.

“Damn it,” he snapped.

“Something wrong, Nash?” Joe Geraldi, the managing editor of the Tribune, stood beside Ben’s desk.

With a trim build and a full head of prematurely white hair, Joe radiated a brisk energy, the force of which he directed at Ben. It snapped Ben out of his trance. “Where’s the IT department?”

Joe screwed up his lean, expressive face. “Geez, Ben. You’ve worked here for two years and don’t know where IT is?”

“I know IT’s extension.” Technical help was a phone call away, a godsend for a reporter habitually in a rush. This matter, however, needed to be dealt with in person. “Will you tell me where they are or should I ask someone else?”

“Second floor.”

“Thanks.” Ben rolled back his chair, got to his feet and strode toward the elevator past cubicles where other reporters talked on phones and typed on computer keyboards.

“Hold up.” Joe’s raised voice trailed him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sorry. This can’t wait.” Ben didn’t break stride, which wouldn’t sit well with Joe. The two of them sometimes grabbed a meal together after working late, but Joe was, above all, his boss. Ben called back over his shoulder, “I’ll explain later.”

He nearly plowed into the diminutive editor of the business section, muttered a hurried apology and kept going. Bypassing the elevator, he ran lightly down two floors of stairs and emerged on the second floor. It was a neater version of the newsroom, with the piles of paper and files reporters typically kept on their desks largely absent. Flimsy walls separated the workspaces into cubicles. He stopped at the first one, where a young man wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans hunched over his keyboard.

“Could you help me trace an e-mail?” Ben asked.

The man looked up over his wire-rimmed glasses and leaned back in his chair. He had a shock of dark hair and an unlined, earnest face that communicated amusement. His jaw worked on a piece of gum and Ben got a whiff of spearmint. “First you’ll have to tell me who you are.”

“Sorry.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck, encountering cords of tension. He was often abrupt, but seldom rude. “Ben Nash. I work upstairs.”

“Oh, yeah. You wrote the series that ran in Sunday’s paper about corruption in the police department. That’s bound to shake things up.”

The story had consumed Ben for two months, during which he might have averaged six hours of sleep a night, yet at the moment it seemed unimportant. “That’s why I wrote it.”

“I’m Keith Snyder. We’ve talked on the phone.”

“I recognize the voice.” Ben didn’t have the patience for any more small talk. “Well, can you do it? Can you trace that e-mail?”

“That’s like asking Superman if he can fly.” Keith flexed his fingers. “Let me at it.”

In a surprisingly short time, most of which Keith spent dispensing insider information about IP addresses and computer networks, Ben had an answer. The e-mail originated from a computer inside the Indigo Springs public library. The air-conditioning suddenly felt as though it had been lowered a few notches.

“Can you narrow it to a specific computer?” Ben asked.

“Afraid not,” Keith said. “Could have come from anywhere inside the building, and most libraries have a bank of public access computers.”

“How about the e-mail address itself? Any way to check whose account it is?”

“You mean whose account it was. I use Yahoo! mail, too.” Keith gestured to the mountaindweller-blaine part of the e-mail open on his computer screen. “That dash indicates a disposable address. Seems like it might have been created for one purpose.”

“To send to me,” Ben said thoughtfully.

“You got it.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you a beer after work sometime.” That was about the extent of his social activity lately.

“I’ll take a rain check.” Keith nodded to a photo on his desk of an attractive woman holding a baby dressed entirely in pink, from her shoes to her bonnet. “My wife’s on maternity leave. She can’t wait for me to get home so I can give her a break.”

Nobody was waiting for Ben. He’d gotten the investigative reporting job at the Tribune after establishing his name at a series of smaller papers throughout the state. He’d never worked a set schedule or taken the standard weekend days off. The long hours came with the job, as did a burning curiosity. Keith had focused on the technical aspects of the e-mail, completely ignoring the content, a feat that would have been impossible for Ben.

His boss would ask questions, something Ben anticipated when he returned to the newsroom and rapped on the frame of the open door to the managing editor’s corner office.

“If you hadn’t just broken a story, I’d fire your ass,” Joe said from behind his desk. Through the window behind him, gray clouds hovered above the city buildings and the visible part of the Monongahela River, emitting a misty drizzle that made it difficult to tell it was spring.

“Never happen,” Ben said. “I’m your most valuable asset.”

“My most valuable asset is gonna find himself covering the dog show down at the convention center if he doesn’t watch his back.”

“Can’t do it,” Ben said. “I need some time off.”

A deep furrow appeared between Joe’s brows. “Impossible. I just got a tip about a group home for the mentally ill that’s kicking out residents left and right. Something’s not right at this place. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Normally, I’m your guy, Joe. But not this time. I really need that time off.”

“For what?”

Ben hesitated. “It’s personal.”

Joe crossed his arms over his chest, dislodging one side of his blue dress shirt. It came untucked by the end of almost every workday. “Then let me personally assure you that you’re not getting squat unless you start talking.”

Sighing heavily, Ben walked to the door and pulled it shut. “You can be a real jerk, did you know that?”

“That’s what my ex-wife always says but she doesn’t work for me. You do.”

Ben leaned with his back against the closed door, pretending a calm he didn’t feel. “It’s my mother. I just got some e-mails about her.”

“I thought your mother died a long time ago.”

Ben swallowed. “She did.”

While Ben divulged the content of the e-mails and IT’s findings, Joe got out of his chair and circled the desk. He perched on the edge of the piece of heavy furniture, all his intensity focused on Ben. “You never told me what happened to her.”

“It was an accident, or so I was told. She took me and my two brothers to visit her parents in this little town in the Poconos. One night she went to one of those lookouts with the scenic views and she fell.”

“One night? Why would she go to a lookout at night?”

Ben had never received a satisfactory answer to that question or the numerous others he’d asked his father over the years. Even though Ben had always felt there was more to his mother’s death than he’d been told, his father wasn’t the best source. He hadn’t even been present in Indigo Springs when his wife died.

“I don’t think it was fully dark yet. She had a camera with her so supposedly she was there to take photos,” Ben said, although that theory had never seemed quite right. His mother had kept photo albums, but they were dominated by snapshots of family members smiling into the camera, not scenery. “It’s time I found out the whole story. At the very least I want to know who sent those e-mails and why they waited twenty years.”

Joe remained silent for a long time. Outside the weather had worsened, and Ben could hear the patter of rain on the windowpanes. Indigo Springs was in the Pocono Mountains on the other side of the state, a drive of five to six hours. If he went directly home and packed a bag, he could be there by mid- to late-afternoon.

“If you want the time off, you got it,” Joe finally said. “Let me run something by you first. It’s okay if you don’t want to do it.”

“Do what?” Ben asked warily.

“Write a story from the angle of an investigative reporter uncovering the mystery of his mother’s death. On the clock, of course.”

Ben felt his muscles bunch. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I know you, Ben. Writing’s cathartic. It’d be a way for you to deal with the past once and for all.” He hesitated, as though unsure whether to continue. Finally, he did. “Not to mention it’d make a really good story.”

Joe’s argument had merit. Ben totally engrossed himself in a story until it came out in print. Only then could he let it go. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe writing the story would exorcise his demons.

“What about that tip?” Ben realized he’d just agreed to his boss’s proposition.

“I’ll have Larry Timmons look in to it.” Joe named an ambitious reporter who had assisted Ben on a few occasions, a young guy hungry to get ahead—Larry reminded Ben of himself. “He’s been hounding me for a chance to take the lead on a big story.”

It went against Ben’s makeup to put anyone else in the driver’s seat, let alone somebody who would fight not to give up the wheel. “Maybe what I need to do won’t take long.”

Joe snorted softly. “With a rottweiler, it usually doesn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rottweiler,” Joe repeated. “That’s what the other reporters call you.”

Ben hadn’t been aware he had a nickname. “Do I want to know why?”

“Once you sink your teeth in a story, you don’t let go.” Joe seemed to relish in the telling. “That Dr. Whitmore doesn’t stand a chance.”

CHAPTER TWO

DR. SIERRA WHITMORE turned away from her reflection in the gift-shop window too late to avoid the image of the long, caramel-brown hair she’d been too chicken to part with.

“Just a trim, please,” she muttered to herself.

That’s what she’d requested when the hip, young stylist who was the new hire at her hair salon asked if she was feeling adventurous. Her intention to have her hair cut boy-short never made it past her lips.

Sierra fished a tie out of her purse and hastily pulled her hair into a loose twist, the way she usually wore it, silently berating herself all the while for her stunning lack of courage.

“Hello, Dr. Whitmore.”

The greeting pulled Sierra out of her daze. The woman passing her on the sidewalk in the heart of the picturesque downtown of Indigo Springs was a patient at the practice where Sierra worked in partnership with her brother.

“Good day, Mrs. Jorgenson.”

The woman gave her a tepid smile and kept walking.

Good day.

Had Sierra really just said that? The woman was roughly her age. She should have uttered a casual hello and addressed her by her first name, like a normal person would have done.

It was time she faced up to the terrible truth her ex-boyfriend, Chad Armstrong, had slammed her with when he broke up with her last month.

She was boring.

Mind-numbingly, nobody’s-in-a-rut-deeper-than-I-am boring.

Even more dull than Chad himself, who could kill a conversation with his pharmacist shoptalk when he bothered to say anything at all.

If the charge wasn’t true, she’d be headed out of town to meet an old college friend for a wild weekend of clubbing. She’d have asked her brother to cover for her rather than refusing the invitation because she was on call.

She didn’t have any firm plans for this weekend at all, which was why she was heading back to the office. Even when Whitmore Family Practice closed early, as it did every Friday afternoon, Sierra could always find some paperwork.

She spotted a flyer advertising next weekend’s Indigo Springs Arts and Music Festival alongside a splashy modern painting in the window of an art studio. The other tourist-themed businesses on the pretty, hilly street—restaurants, bike and ski shops, souvenir stores—sported similar notices. She was wondering why a banner promoting the event hadn’t been strung over Main Street, when she saw the man.

He wore dark shades even though the sun wasn’t particularly bright. In a short-sleeved black polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, he was seemingly oblivious to the slight chill typical of the latter part of April. The section of sidewalk where he stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans was shaded by a red maple tree, its vibrant leaves forming a backdrop that caused him to appear ridiculously masculine. The smell of flowers in bloom wafted on a breeze, a further contradiction.

She snuck a glance at him as she approached, appreciating the sensuous line of his mouth, the wave in his thick dark hair and his solid build. He looked to have three days’ growth of beard, which somehow made him seem more sexy. So did his height. She judged him to be at least six feet two, maybe even six-three.

“Excuse me.” The timbre of his voice, soft and deep and without an accent she could detect, reached out to her. “Sorry to bother you, but can you recommend a place to stay?”

That meant he was a visitor, unsurprising in a place marketed as a year-round tourist destination. Besides, if this man lived in Indigo Springs, she would have noticed him before now.

“Try the Blue Stream Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s up the street a few blocks.” She pointed to indicate the direction. “If that’s full, I’d give the Indigo Inn a shot. It’s back the other way.”

“Have you stayed at either of those places?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t. Some locals book a room at the B and B just to sample the blueberry scones the owner serves for breakfast, but so far I’ve resisted.”

“So you live here in Indigo Springs?”

She wished he wasn’t wearing those shades so she could see whether the color of his eyes complemented his long, straight nose and strong jawline, which was partially obscured by dark stubble. “I do.”

“Can you steer me toward me a good place for dinner tonight?”

“Can I ever.” She gestured across the street to a Thai restaurant with a bright red door. “That place has the best pad thai I’ve ever had. It’s so good I could eat it every day of the week.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then how about having pad thai tonight? With me.”

The breeze cooled the interior of Sierra’s mouth, alerting her that it must have dropped open. “You want me to have dinner with you?” she repeated, just in case she’d misunderstood.

“Sure. Why not? You could save me from eating alone.”

A thrill traveled through Sierra before reason took over. “Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Well, no.”

“Engaged?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “In a relationship? Wary of strange men who approach you on the street?”

She laughed. “No to the first two questions. Yes to the third.”

“Not much I can do about that.” He gave a small shrug, emphasizing the play of muscles in his shoulders. “Thanks for the recommendations.”

He started walking in the direction of the B and B, leaving Sierra exactly where she’d been before the unforeseen encounter: chiding herself for allowing her life to turn stale.

So what had she done the first time she got the opportunity to do the unexpected?

She’d let her unexpected opportunity get away.

“Wait!” She followed up on her cry by pursuing the stranger. He turned, those eyes still covered by shades, the quirk of his sensuous mouth the only thing betraying his curiosity.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“Never been.” He lifted a left hand bare of rings. The base of his hand was broad, his fingers long, his knuckles lightly dusted with hair.

Lots of married men didn’t wear the evidence, yet she could tell instinctively that he really was single. Chad, with his roots in Indigo Springs and stable job, was the type of guy you could settle down with. Her father had told her that all the time. He’d warn her against this man. Because this man was the kind you took to bed. She fought not to blush at the thought and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Ben Nash.”

It suited him, strong and to the point, like the man himself.

“Mine’s Sierra.” She started to add the Whitmore surname, then caught sight of the sign above the doctor’s office. Sierra had worked hard to get where she was, but she longed for this man to treat her like a woman, not a physician. He had no notion she’d developed into the biggest bore who’d ever lived.

“Hello, Sierra.” He stuck out one of his strong hands, which immediately engulfed hers in warmth, sending a shivery sensation through her. “I guess this means we’re not strangers anymore.”

That had been her intention. She was through standing back and letting life pass her by. Earlier today she’d wondered how to dig herself out of her rut.

Now she knew.

“I can’t make it for dinner.” She tried lowering her voice to a flirtatious murmur. “Would you like to meet for drinks instead?”

SIERRA SMOOTHED her hands over the tight jeans that hugged her body like denim Saran Wrap, glimpsed down at the deep, daring vee of her clinging black top and fought the impulse to sprint to her bedroom closet.

She didn’t think she moved, but her spike heels were so high she wobbled a little anyway.

The outfit was hers, but she’d only worn the shirt before and always under a sweater. With her straight brown hair taking a free fall down her back, she felt like a stranger.

“Who do I think I’m fooling?” Sierra muttered. Ben Nash had seen how conservatively she was dressed when they met that afternoon. He wouldn’t fall for her seductress act tonight.

If, that is, she managed to keep the date.

She shook off the thought. Of course she intended to meet him. A quick glance at the alarm clock on her bedside table showed she still had twenty minutes until they were scheduled to get together. If she was quick about changing her clothes, she’d barely be late.

She sat down on her bed, crossed one leg over the other and started to pull off her shoe. A rapping sound stopped her.

She went still, listening intently. The tapping stopped, then started again, sounding exactly like a knock. She rolled her eyes. Of course it was a knock. That was how visitors announced their presence in the absence of a doorbell, which the downtown town house she’d moved into last week didn’t have.

She crossed the hardwood of her second-floor bedroom, which still smelled of the polish she’d used to bring out its shine, hoping her heels didn’t damage the floor. She peeked out the window that faced Main Street. Annie Sublinski Whitmore stood on the doorstep, wearing jeans that fit much looser than Sierra’s, a green Indigo River Rafters windbreaker and tennis shoes. Her pickup truck was parked at the curb.

Regretting that she hadn’t had time to change her clothes, Sierra headed for the stairs. She gripped the banister to keep from counterbalancing in the unfamiliar heels, made it to the foyer and let Annie into the town house.

“Hope you don’t mind me stopping by like…” Annie’s voice abruptly lost steam, and her easy-to-read eyes widened. “Wow!”

Sierra grimaced and crossed her arms over her midsection. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“Too much for what?” Annie asked, pulling the door shut behind her.

Sierra hesitated. Annie had become her sister-in-law a few months ago when she’d married Sierra’s brother Ryan. The two women had attended high school together once upon a time but they were still working on becoming friends. “I’m meeting someone for drinks.”

“Great!” Annie patted the stray hairs the wind had blown loose from her blond ponytail back into place. Her face, devoid of makeup, glowed with natural color from the sun and the wind. “Anyone I know?”

“No.”

Annie waited a beat, but Sierra couldn’t very well tell her sister-in-law she was screwing up the courage to lose her inhibitions with a sexy stranger.

“I’m glad you’re dating again.” Annie had a sincerity about her that made everything she said appear genuine. “Really glad.”

“Thank you.” Sierra’s response sounded wooden when she’d meant to communicate how touched she was by Annie’s enthusiasm. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, she gestured toward the kitchen at the back of the town house. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Oh, no,” Annie said. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you, and I’m itching to get home to Ryan anyway.”

Annie was referring to Sierra’s childhood home, a large Colonial in the residential area immediately adjacent to downtown Indigo Springs. Sierra had lived in the house as an adult, too, until deciding the newlyweds should have it to themselves. Annie and Ryan wouldn’t be alone for long. At the end of the school year, the daughter they’d given up for adoption when they were teenagers and reconnected with last summer was moving in with them permanently.

“Ryan played pick-up basketball tonight, so I had dinner with my dad after I got off the river.” Annie ran a tourist-themed business with her father that offered whitewater trips and mountain bike rentals. “He texted a little while ago that he has a glass of red wine waiting for me.”

“Sounds like you deserve to relax.” Sierra shifted from high heel to high heel. She was already taller than average. In the shoes, she towered over Annie. “Ryan says you’ve been working a lot lately.”

“Spring’s our busiest season, especially when we get a lot of rain. The rafting’s terrific when the river’s high. We’re booking so many trips I won’t have time for anything but work the next couple weeks.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Good for business. Not so good for the festival, which brings me to the reason I stopped by.” Annie’s long pause was uncharacteristic. “I was hoping you’d fill in for me on the planning committee.”

“Me?” Sierra resisted the urge to take a giant step backward, away from the request.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, with Chad being a member.” Annie made a face. “I thought you might be uncomfortable around him, but Ryan says you’re made of tougher stuff than that.”

Her brother didn’t know her nearly as well as he thought he did.

Sierra pressed her lips together, so she wouldn’t give in to the temptation to refuse outright, and composed an answer. “Do I have to let you know right now?”

“Oh, no.” Annie shook her head. “Take a day to think about it. There’s a meeting Sunday afternoon and then things’ll get pretty busy, especially come festival weekend.”

Sierra nodded, hating herself for letting the thought of dealing with her ex-boyfriend stop her from agreeing to help the community. At this rate, Annie would have a hard time warming up to her.

“You’d be a great help to the committee, not to mention you’d be doing me a huge favor,” Annie said. “And who knows? After tonight, being on the committee might not seem like such a big deal.”

Sierra cocked her head. “What do you mean by after tonight?”

“You’re dating again, right?” Annie grinned at her, then let herself out of the town house. Before she pulled the door shut, she stuck her head around the frame.

“One more thing,” she said, eyes sparkling. “If you’re looking to impress that guy you’re meeting, don’t you dare change out of those clothes.”

BEN STOPPED WATCHING the entrance to the Blue Haven Pub fifteen minutes after Sierra was due to arrive. She’d stood him up, not that it came as a shock.

Sierra had been as skittish as an anonymous source when they’d met even as she tried to project a worldliness he’d seen right through. She was classy, from the toes of her low-heeled pumps to the tailored cut of her blazer to the subtle smell of her perfume. She wasn’t the type of woman who arranged dates with strange men.

He fought back disappointment even though he couldn’t fault Sierra’s judgment. His motives weren’t exactly pure. He’d intended to subtly press her for information on the town’s inhabitants and find out what she knew about Dr. Whitmore.

Now that he wasn’t distracted by her imminent arrival, nothing was stopping him from striking up conversations with the patrons. There were plenty of them, sitting on stools around the bar, playing pool in the back room, gathered around tables hoisting mugs of beer. The pub seemed to be the town’s ultimate gathering spot, a place frequented by both locals and tourists.

He imagined his mother sitting in this same bar, perhaps at this very table, unaware she didn’t have long to live. A chill penetrated his skin, and he realized his hand had tightened around his frosted glass. He relaxed his grip. His chances of discovering the truth about how his mother had died would be greater if he could treat this like any other story.

So far he hadn’t learned much.

The teenage clerk at his hotel had recently moved to town with his family and was unfamiliar with Whitmore Family Practice. The waitress at the Thai restaurant knew only that Ryan Whitmore was a doctor.

Neither had Ben made headway on tracking down the sender of the e-mails. He’d visited the public library at five-thirty that afternoon only to find out it closed at five.

He wished he’d done more groundwork on the Whitmore family before leaving Pittsburgh. After receiving those anonymous e-mails, however, all he could think about was traveling to where the scent was strongest.

He’d counted on a quick search of the Web yielding all he needed to know. He hadn’t anticipated his hotel wouldn’t have Internet access and that the only Internet café in town wasn’t scheduled to open until next month.

He was about to leave the table and head for an old-timer bellying up to the bar when he caught sight of a woman with long, sexy brown hair at the entrance. She took off her black jacket, revealing clothes that showed off her killer body.

She scanned the interior of the bar, her posture as rigid as that of a mannequin in a store window. She looked in his general direction, and her chest expanded, as though she was sucking in a deep breath. He watched as she ventured forward, curious to see if she’d be joining a lucky guy.

Her steps faltered, but she kept coming in his general direction, navigating the labyrinth of tables, dodging a woman who abruptly stood up. She didn’t stop until she drew even with his table and slipped into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

He was the lucky guy.

He blinked, then blinked again. She had the same high cheekbones, delicate chin and full mouth as the woman he’d met earlier that afternoon. While that Sierra had been pretty in an understated way, this one was a knockout.

“No apology necessary.” He kept his eyes trained on her face instead of indulging himself and letting them dip to the generous cleavage her low-cut shirt displayed. She had the bone structure of a model without the emptiness he perhaps unfairly associated with the excessively beautiful. That term didn’t exactly apply to Sierra, mostly because of the intelligence in her eyes, but partly due to a nose that wasn’t completely straight. In his opinion, that small imperfection made her more appealing. “You’re definitely worth the wait.”

“Exactly the reaction I was aiming for.” The comment should have sounded flirtatious, but her voice shook slightly, as though she was…nervous?

A middle-aged waitress in a hurry stopped by their table to take Sierra’s drink order. Sierra hesitated, then said, “Whiskey.”

“Neat?” the waitress asked.

Sierra’s eyebrows, finely arched and a shade darker than her hair, drew together. “Excuse me?”

Ben hid a grin and supplied, “Without a mixer.”

“Oh, no.” Sierra waved a hand airily, as though she ordered whiskey every day of the week. “I like it with water. On the rocks.”

Ben waited until the waitress had gone, then set about trying to put her at ease. “The B and B was booked, but I got a room at the Indigo Inn. I also took your advice about the pad thai. It was delicious.” He smiled. “The pad thai, I mean. I haven’t tasted the room.”

“I’m glad.” She fidgeted with her gold bracelet, her expression serious. His joke had been lame, but he’d at least expected her to return his smile.

One beat of silence stretched to two, then three.

“So, Sierra whatever-your-last-name-is,” he said, “what am I allowed to know about you?”

She stopped playing with the bracelet and clasped her hands primly in her lap, the kind of reaction he might have expected if he’d asked for the pin number of her ATM card.

“I’m not all that interesting,” she said.

The understatement of the year, and Ben’s years were packed with intriguing things. “Let me be the judge of that.”

The waitress saved her from replying by returning with her whiskey, which she set in front of Sierra with a plop before bustling away. Sierra picked up the glass and took a large swallow. Her lips curled and her eyes watered.

Those damp eyes zeroed in on him. “Can we not do this?”

“Do what?”

She waved a slim, pretty hand. Her nails were unpainted. “Pretend to be interested in each other’s lives. We both know why we got together tonight.”

They did? She shifted in her chair, as though waiting for him to say something. For the life of him, he didn’t know what. He wasn’t ready to confess his hope that she could tell him about Dr. Whitmore.

“Mutual attraction,” she whispered. A blush stained her smooth alabaster skin, and he would have bet his laptop computer she’d never come on to a stranger before.

“I’m definitely attracted.” He was intrigued, too, and determined to get to the bottom of the puzzle she presented. “Except I’d love some conversation. For me, there’s got to be more than lust at first sight.”

The pinkish color on her cheeks deepened to a deep rose before she tossed her hair back and met his eyes. She held his gaze, it looked like with an effort. “Then tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

Her delicate shoulders rose, then fell. “What are you doing in Indigo Springs?”

“Reliving memories.” He’d eventually tell her he was an investigative reporter, but the moment wasn’t right. “I was here one time as a child. It seemed past time I came back.” Something stopped him from revealing his grandparents had once been residents of Indigo Springs. “How about you? Have you lived here long?”

“All my life.” She fidgeted and snuck a not-so-covert glance at the people around them. She’d been doing that a lot since she arrived.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately, then finally whispered, “People are staring at us.”

“They’re staring at you,” he corrected.

She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her hands up and down the bare skin of her upper arms. “Because they’ve never seen me dressed like this.”

“Because you look fantastic,” he countered.

She shook her head, uncrossed her arms, ran a hand over her mouth, then lowered her voice another half octave. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here tonight.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. “We’re just two people having a drink together.”

“It’s more than that.” She leaned forward so only he could hear. He could smell something light and flowery. Not perfume, like he’d thought earlier today. Scented shampoo. “I was going to try to get you to invite me back to your room.”

His heartbeat sped up to a gallop. “You wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

“Except I changed my mind.” The corners of her mouth drooped. “It’s pretty clear I’m not cut out for one-night stands.”

The gallop slowed to a trot. He blew out a breath, fighting the compulsion to disagree. “Why did you think you were?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night.” Pumping her for information about Dr. Whitmore could wait. He looked around for their waitress, didn’t find her and nodded at her barely touched whiskey. “I’m having another beer. Want me to get you something else?”

“A diet soda, please,” she said primly.

“Coming right up.” Pretending he didn’t feel as though he’d just lost a jackpot, he maneuvered through a maze of tables to the bar and placed his order.

The bartender was an attractive woman with curly black hair, huge, dark eyes and a warm smile. She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five. With quick efficiency, she poured the soda, refilled his beer and set the drinks in front of him. “So how do you know the doc?”

“What doc?” Ryan asked.

She gestured to Sierra with her index finger, the funky bracelets she wore jangling together. “Dr. Whitmore. She looks fantastic tonight, not that she doesn’t usually. I just never saw her dress like that before.”

Shock momentarily squeezed Ben’s windpipe. He hid his astonishment the best he could, swallowed, then muttered the blandest response he could think of. “Mutual friends.”

He picked up his beer mug, his brain whirring. It seemed a fantastic coincidence until he noted he’d run across Sierra in the same block as Whitmore Family Practice. The office had been closed, but she must have been returning to the office, perhaps to finish up some work.

He examined her with new eyes en route to the table, putting her age at around thirty, probably just a little younger than he was. She could be Dr. Ryan Whitmore’s youthful wife, except she’d claimed not to be married. Was she his daughter?

Excitement flared. No matter how it had happened, he’d stumbled across a delicious opportunity to fill in the many blanks he had about Dr. Ryan Whitmore.

He closed in on Sierra, then noticed her face go white. He followed the direction of her gaze to the bar entrance. A slender man about his age of average height with blond hair receding at the temples nodded in Sierra’s direction. She inclined her head slightly, then gazed down at the table.

Her eyes didn’t raise until Ben took a seat across from her. They looked big and sad. He cursed inwardly, and the flame of exhilaration he felt when he discovered her last name extinguished.

He was not about to interrogate a woman as fragile as this one about Dr. Ryan Whitmore until he got some other questions answered.

“That long story you were going to tell me, does it have anything to do with that guy?” Ben indicated the new arrival with a slight jerk of his head.

She started. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” Ben said, although his deduction had more to do with powers of observation. “Here’s another. He’s the ex-boyfriend.”

Her chin trembled, and she nodded. “He called it off last month.”

“That’s rough,” he said. “Were you together long?”

“We’ve known each other since high school, but didn’t start dating until I was out of college.”

“Sounds serious.”

She snuck a look at her ex, then spoke in a voice so soft it was hard to hear. “Everybody thought we’d get married. My father treated him like a son.”

“So you were in love with him?”

She didn’t answer for so long he thought she regretted what she’d already revealed. Then, finally, she spoke. “I thought so. Now I’m not so sure. He’s solid and dependable, but set in his ways.”

“Ah,” Ben said as understanding dawned. “Is one of his routines coming to the Blue Haven on Friday nights?”

Guilt flitted across her face. “He’s here on Tuesdays and on Fridays, never for longer than an hour. He always orders mineral water with a twist of lime.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Funny you should use that word. He broke up with me because he said I was boring.” She crossed her arms over her midsection. “He may be right, too. I just proved it all over again with you.”

“Because you’re passing up that chance to have your way with me?” He made his eyebrows dance, coaxing the hint of a grin from her pretty bowed lips.

“Yes.” She cast another surreptitious glance at her ex-boyfriend, and the partial grin vanished. “No offense, but I’m calling it a night. Please don’t feel like you have to leave, too.”

“I can at least walk you out.” No way would he let her face her ex alone and vulnerable if he could help it. He pushed back from the table, then waited for her to precede him.

She put on her jacket and kept her eyes forward as they moved together toward the exit. The other man sat in a booth beside a window that afforded a view of the street. He stared at them intently, his gaze following them even after they were outside in the cool night air.

Ben stopped on the sidewalk and faced Sierra, careful to stay in her ex-boyfriend’s sight line. “I take it you met me tonight so your ex could see us together?”

She grimaced, her slightly crooked nose crinkling. “Partly. And partly to prove to myself I could be unpredictable.” She gazed heavenward, then down again. “Except neither of those worked out so well.”

“They could,” he said. “Your ex is awfully interested in what we’re doing out here.”

“We’re not doing anything,” she said.

“We will be.” He advanced a step and gathered her into his arms. Before she could stiffen, he whispered, “Relax or it won’t look realistic.”

She blinked up at him. “What won’t look realistic?”

“The show we’re going to give him.”

He half expected her to yank out of his arms, but she surprised him, relaxing her body so she appeared less tense than at any other time tonight. He could smell the light floral scent he now knew was her shampoo mixed with the warmth of her skin as her soft curves molded against him. A glint of mischievousness appeared in her eyes. “Do you think we can pull it off?”

“Oh, yeah.” He winked at her, then dipped his head.

Her lips molded to his in the sweetest of kisses, her arms twining around his neck to pull him close. He angled his body and gathered her intimately against him so her jerk of an ex-boyfriend could get an eyeful.

Their embrace confirmed what he already knew: Her ex was an idiot. Nothing was remotely boring about a woman who could kiss like this.

She might have been pretending, but it was a good act. She was tall for a woman, especially in her spiked heels, but felt delicate in his arms. He threaded his fingers through her luxurious long hair, which felt like silk against his skin. Her lips clung to his, her tongue darting out to stroke the tip of his. He accepted her invitation, letting his tongue slide inside her mouth.

He’d kissed a lot of women in his thirty-one years but never did he remember a first kiss like this. Their mouths melded, their bodies fit, their hearts seemed to beat in tandem. His arousal was instantaneous.

A rumble echoed in his ears, which he attributed to the blood roaring through his veins. A shrill staccato noise blared. A car horn. Belatedly, he remembered where he was and what he was doing. Correction. What he was attempting to convince Sierra he was doing.

Putting on a show. With a relative of the man who might have been involved in his mother’s death, no less.

He pulled back, his mouth reluctantly parting from hers. Her green eyes appeared huge as they stared back at his. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll say we fooled him.”

She nodded, appearing dazed. “Yeah.”

He disengaged from her, struggling to get his body under control, although she couldn’t miss the effect she’d had on him. He tried to make his voice sound natural. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“That’s not necessary.” Her voice sounded low and shaky. “I only live a few blocks away.”

“Then I’ll walk you home.”

She seemed about to protest further, then closed her mouth and nodded. They walked the next few blocks in silence, not touching, a half body length separating them. The street got quieter as businesses gradually gave way to a quaint row of town houses with stone facades.

“It’s this one.” She stopped in front of one of the more classy residences. A wrought-iron railing led to a redbrick door. A pot of colorful flowers adorned the ledge protruding from the front window. The entire home emanated grace and beauty, like its owner. She tucked a strand of her long hair behind her ear, which struck him as sensual. Then again, at this point just about every move she made was sexy. “Thank you for what you did back there at the bar.”

He nearly laughed aloud. “Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

Her cheeks colored, charming him all over again. He lightly rubbed the back of his knuckles against the stain, then pulled his hand back. He knew better than to reach for her again.

“You know what I wish?” he asked softly.

She stared up at him with her big eyes, her head shaking back and forth so that silken hair of hers swayed.

“I wish you were the kind of woman who indulged in one-night stands,” he said.

She anchored her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe and kissed him, so briefly it was just an electric brushing of lips.

“Me, too.” She spoke so close to his mouth he felt her warm breath and smelled the faintest trace of whiskey. “Goodbye, Ben Nash.”

She disappeared inside, leaving him staring at the closed door. Only then did he realize that neither of them had thought to check her ex-boyfriend’s reaction to their kiss.

Resigned to an early night, he headed in the direction of his downtown hotel. If he meant to preserve the fiction he and Sierra had just created, returning to the Blue Haven wasn’t an option.

The real world would intrude soon enough, because the two wishes he’d kept to himself had no better chance of coming true than the first.

That Sierra’s last name wasn’t Whitmore.

And that tomorrow morning he wouldn’t have to break the news to her that he was an investigative reporter.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SPINACH AND CHEESE omelet at Jimmy’s Diner was every bit as delicious as Sierra had always heard. So was the coffee: thick, rich and not bitter in the slightest.

“Can I get anything else for you, Doc?” Ellie Marson, the waitress who was as much a mainstay at Jimmy’s as the red vinyl booths, bustled over to Sierra on Saturday morning. If Sierra hadn’t noticed her birth date when Ellie was in the office a few months ago complaining of foot pain, she’d never have guessed the other woman was sixty-two.

“Just the check, please,” Sierra said.

“Coming right up.” Ellie quickly shuffled through the orders on her pad and ripped off a sheet. “I never did thank you for referring me to that podiatrist.”

“Did he take care of the problem?” Sierra asked.

The waitress pointed to the pair of white thick-soled shoes on her feet. “These did the trick. Would have told you sooner if you’d come in here for breakfast before today.”

“I usually eat at home,” Sierra said.

Who was she kidding? She always started the day with a glass of orange juice and a low-fat, high-fiber cereal consumed at her own kitchen table. She’d complained about Chad Armstrong slavishly following his routines, yet the only thing she varied was whether she filled her bowl with Frosted Mini-Wheats or Special K.

Until today, when she’d awakened remembering the way Ben Nash had looked at her last night.

If she could attract the attention of a dynamic man like Ben simply by being a little more daring, it was time to act a lot less predictably.

So she’d gone for a brisk early-morning walk instead of popping in her customary exercise DVD and skipped her cereal for the specialty omelet at Jimmy’s Diner. She’d even dug through a closet containing mostly pastels and neutral colors and pulled out her lone red top, which she’d paired with a flirty navy skirt a few inches shorter than the ones she usually wore.

“Well, I sure am glad you decided to stop in this morning,” the waitress said. “I’d love to see you here more often.”

“Thanks, Ms. Mar…” Sierra stopped herself, remembering her vow to loosen up. This was someone she’d known for years. “I mean, Ellie.”

“No need to thank me for speaking the truth,” Ellie said. “It does a body good to work less and the soul to eat out more, ’cept next time you should eat at the counter.”

She’d make a note of that, Sierra thought as Ellie went off to wait on another customer. The other solo diners had opted to sit where they could interact. Sierra knew a fair number of the customers, although none of them well, including the tall brunette who reached the exit at the same time she did. Sierra held the door open.

“Thanks.” Sara Brenneman held a foam cup of take-out coffee in each hand. A lawyer who lived and worked in the block adjacent to Sierra’s town house, Sara was dressed in jeans and a windbreaker instead of the smart, stylish business clothes she favored. Her windbreaker, however, was hot-pink. “I was just talking about you this morning.”

Sierra felt her cheeks grow warm despite a temperature that probably hadn’t yet hit sixty. Had Sara been at the Blue Haven last night? Had she seen Sierra leave the bar with Ben Nash? Had she witnessed the kiss?

“I called Annie this morning about festival business and she said you might take her place on the committee,” Sara explained.

Sierra relaxed. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Think fast because we need the help, not to mention Annie says you’d be great at it.” Sara walked quickly and purposefully down the sidewalk even though they were heading more than slightly uphill, past shops and restaurants not yet open for business. On a Saturday morning, the town was slow to wake up. “If you decide to fill in, the meeting’s tomorrow at Quincy Coleman’s house.”

“Really? Quincy Coleman?” Sierra wondered if Annie had purposely neglected to mention who was hosting the meeting. Surely she was aware that the retired banker’s one-sided feud with her late father hadn’t endeared him to the rest of the Whitmore family.

“I was surprised when I found out he was on the committee, too,” Sara said. “He’s been unexpectedly easy to deal with. He seems to be trying to make amends for the past.”

Coleman’s most egregious offense was unfairly holding Michael Donahue, Sara’s fiancé, responsible for the death of his daughter. Taking potshots at Sierra’s father whenever the opportunity presented itself paled in comparison.

“Anyway, I hope to see you at the meeting,” she said. “Oh. And I almost forgot. Annie says you have a friend in Harrisburg who owns a bridal shop. I’d love her business card, if you have one.”

“Does that mean you and Michael have set a date?”

Sara beamed, her entire face lighting up even though the sun was rising at her back. “The last Saturday in June.”

“And you don’t have your dress yet?”

“Now you sound just like Annie,” Sara said in a long-suffering voice. “Two months is plenty of time.”

Not if the dress needed alterations, it wasn’t.

“I’ll be sure to get you that card,” Sierra said.

“Great.” The lawyer left Sierra with a smile, then immediately picked up her pace, no doubt eager to rejoin her fiancé. Sierra wondered if Sara served Michael Donahue coffee in bed and had a pang that she’d passed up the chance to do the same for Ben Nash.

Ben Nash, who was passing through town and who she’d probably never see again.

Before regret could take hold, she focused on the morning ahead. Unlike many other family physicians, she and Ryan didn’t start the morning with hospital rounds. Because of time and distance constraints, it made more sense to use hospitalists—specialists who provided care to patients while they were in the hospital. She let herself into the medical practice through the back entrance and was shrugging into her lab coat when Missy Cromartie rushed down the hall.

“Dr. Sierra, am I glad you’re here!” Missy was short and slight with large eyes that nearly overwhelmed her pretty, elfin face. Her dramatic coloring, black hair and blue eyes set in pale skin, suited her personality. “When I got to work ten minutes ago, a man was waiting outside to see Dr. Ryan. I told him to come back at nine when we opened, but he wanted to come in and wait.”

“You did fine, Missy.” Sierra gentled her voice to calm the excitable receptionist. “It’s okay if he waits inside.”

“You don’t understand.” If possible, Missy’s light-colored eyes grew larger and rounder. Her shoulder-length hair shook along with her head. “He doesn’t have an appointment.”

“I’m sure you can squeeze him in.”

“But he’s not sick! I tried telling him how busy it gets on Saturdays, but he said he’ll wait as long as it takes. I don’t know what to do with him.”

Sierra started to tell Missy to handle the problem the best she could, then thought better of it. That’s what the old Sierra would say. The new Sierra met challenges head-on…if she didn’t count her reluctance to join the festival committee.

“Would you like me to talk to him?” Sierra asked.

“That’d be great!” Missy’s relief was out of proportion to the offer. “Just great!”

Sierra plastered on a professional smile, walked purposefully toward the waiting room and froze. Her heart did a leap worthy of the basketball players she liked to watch on television. The man sitting in the middle of a bank of chairs against the serene backdrop of a blue wall wasn’t just any man.

It was Ben Nash.

“Ben!” she cried.

His eyes lifted from the pages of Newsweek, his face reflecting none of the surprise she felt certain was on her own. Her mind darted in a dozen directions while her heart pounded. She shouldn’t be happy to see him, not when he was nothing more than a passing distraction. Yet she was.

He stood up. “Hello, Sierra.”

He was even better-looking this morning, the cream color of his long-sleeve shirt contrasting with his olive skin, his eyes clear. She’d found out last night they were brown, to match his hair. It still appeared as though he hadn’t shaved in three days, which must be his usual look. She’d never been partial to facial hair on men, but his stubble added to his rugged good looks.

She advanced, trying to slow down her steps. Missy must have heard him wrong. Ben Nash wasn’t waiting to see Sierra’s brother: he was here to see her. She felt her smile break free.

“This is a surprise.” She stemmed the desire to walk into his arms and stopped a few feet shy of him. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I’m sorry I gave you that impression.”

That was a strange thing to say. Did he honestly believe she’d hold it against him that he’d been secretly planning to seek her out? But how had he found her? “I know I didn’t tell you I was a doctor.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “In a town this small, people talk.”

For one of the first times in her life, she was glad gossip was a favorite pastime among the locals in Indigo Springs. Otherwise, she might not have had the pleasure of seeing Ben again. Or the chance to find out where what they’d started last night would lead.

“I won’t get off work until about one o’clock.” She couldn’t ask Ryan to take her patient load. They were far too busy on Saturday mornings for one doctor. “Then I’m completely free for the rest of the day.”

“I might not be. I’m here on business,” he said, something else that didn’t make sense.

“Business?” She cocked her head, regarding him quizzically. “What kind of business?”

“I’m a reporter for the Pittsburgh Tribune.” He cleared his throat, the strong column contracting. “I have reason to believe Dr. Ryan Whitmore can help me with a story.”

Missy hadn’t misunderstood why Ben had showed up in the office this morning.

Sierra had.

The knowledge slammed into her at the same time the front door swung open to admit her brother, who almost never used the back entrance. He stopped his tuneless whistling, ran a hand through his fair head of wind-tousled hair and gave them an eye-crinkling smile. Since Ryan had married Annie in February, he did a lot of smiling.

“Good morning, sis.” A born extrovert, he strode across the room, stretching out a hand to Ben. “Ryan Whitmore. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Sierra heard Ben’s quick intake of breath before he stood and shook her brother’s hand. “Ben Nash from the Pittsburgh Tribune.”

Sierra choked back her disappointment. “Ben’s here to talk to you.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Ben was gazing at Ryan with open skepticism. “I was expecting Ryan Whitmore to be a much older man.”

“I was named after our father,” Ryan said. “He died two years ago.”

Ben rubbed the back of his neck as Sierra tried to figure out what was going on. Why had a Pittsburgh reporter come to Indigo Springs to talk to a dead man? And why hadn’t he told her who he was last night?

“What is this about?” Ryan asked before she could form the question.

“I’m following up on a lead that your father might have information about a woman who died in Indigo Springs,” he said.

Yet Ben had failed to tell her any of this the night before. Their “chance” meeting and his invitation to get together suddenly didn’t seem accidental. She crossed her arms over her heaving stomach.

The door swung open again. Art Czerbiak, who always insisted on the first appointment of the morning, shuffled through. What was left of the elderly man’s gray hair was in disarray from the April wind. He muttered a gruff good-morning and took a seat at the far end of the room, then regarded them with interest. Missy was also watching them closely, not even trying to disguise her stares.

“The waiting room isn’t the best place to have this conversation,” Ben said quietly.

“No.” Sierra directed her comment to Ben in an equally soft voice. “The best time would have been last night when you were trying to pull one over on me.”

“That’s not what I did,” Ben protested.

Ryan looked from Sierra to Ben, a puzzled expression on his face, then placed a hand at the small of Sierra’s back. She wondered if he could feel her shaking.

“Ben’s right,” Ryan said. “We should take this to my office.”

Sierra pivoted and led the way, determinedly keeping her head high and her chin up, the pleasure leaking out of a morning that had started with such promise.

This was exactly why she took so few chances.

The ones she did take tended to backfire.

THE WHITMORE SIBLINGS regarded Ben with widely different expressions after the three of them retreated to a generic room at the end of a long hall. Curiosity emanated from Ryan while Sierra’s lips had flatlined and her eyes had gone steely. Her brother leaned against the edge of a sleek, black desk, his legs crossed at the ankles. Sierra remained standing.

“Now tell us what this is all about,” she demanded. The hair she’d worn long and loose the night before was tied back from her face. A shapeless white lab coat covered her clothes. It was as though the soft, vulnerable woman he’d kissed had never existed.

He blamed himself for that.

He’d gone about the early part of his investigation all wrong, rushing off to Indigo Springs before conducting any of the background work that was usually the foundation of his reporting.

“Yesterday morning I received an e-mail suggesting your father might know something about the death of Allison Blaine,” he said.

“Allison Blaine,” Ryan repeated, then shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She died quite a while ago.” Ben struggled to keep his voice free of the emotion that threatened to clog his throat. “In a fall from a cliff.”

“I remember something like that.” Sierra’s brows drew together. “She was a tourist, right? It seems like the town organized a search. Didn’t a fisherman find her body?”

“That’s about the extent of it,” Ben said.

“But wasn’t that, like, twenty years ago?” Sierra asked.

The date of the day that had forever altered his life was carved into Ben’s mind like an engraving. The anniversary of his mother’s death would be in three months. “Nineteen.”

“I don’t understand.” Sierra shook her head. “Why are you looking into this now, after all this time? And what does our father have to do with it?”

Ben moistened his lips. “I already told you about the e-mail.”

“You haven’t told us what was in it,” Ryan pointed out.

Do you know what really happened to your mother?

Ben didn’t repeat the question aloud. His personal involvement had already clouded his usually clear judgment. If he could treat this like any other story, he’d have a much better chance of uncovering the truth. That meant not telling the Whitmores or anyone else in town he was Allison Blaine’s son.

“The e-mail asked why Dr. Ryan Whitmore wasn’t questioned about her death.” He relayed the substance of the message, substituting “questioned” for “investigated.”

“What!” Sierra cried. “Why would he be? Wasn’t her death an accident?”

“It was ruled an accident,” Ben clarified. “The e-mail casts doubt on that.”

“Who sent this e-mail?” Sierra asked sharply.

“I don’t know yet. The only fact I have is that it originated from Indigo Springs.” Ben explained how the newspaper’s IT department had tracked the e-mail to one of the public-access computers at the library.

“Let me get this straight,” Sierra said tightly, her posture as rigid as her words. She moved closer to her silent brother, as though to demonstrate they were a united front. “You came here today to accuse our father of God only knows what because of some anonymous e-mail.”

“I’m following a lead,” he said. “I’m not accusing your father of anything.”

“Before you cast stones, you should know he was a very good man with a spotless reputation.” Color infused Sierra’s cheeks even though she didn’t raise her voice. “You know the festival the town is holding next weekend? He’ll be honored for his civic work. The town is renaming the park Whitmore Memorial Park.”

Yet another fact Ben had failed to discover before rushing to Indigo Springs.

“Why are you doing this story at all?” Ryan broke his silence, his tone far less volatile than his sister’s. “Why would a Pittsburgh newspaper be interested in something that happened in Indigo Springs almost twenty years ago?”

“Allison Blaine was from Pittsburgh.” Ben ignored the second, more piercing question. “Look. I didn’t come here to upset anyone. Like I said, I’m exploring a tip. It’s probable your father knew her. Maybe she was one of his patients.”

“That’s unlikely,” Sierra said. “She didn’t live here.”

“It’s still possible. She could have needed a doctor while she was in town,” Ben said. “There’s one way to find out. You could check your records.”

“Why would we do that?” Sierra asked. “What possible benefit could it have for us?”

“It could show Mr. Nash here he’s barking up the wrong tree.” Ryan directed his comment to his sister. He straightened from the desk, laying a hand on her arm. He switched his attention to Ben. “Our records weren’t computerized twenty years ago, but it’ll only take a minute to look through our hard files and tell you if Allison Blaine was ever a patient.”

Ben had been a reporter long enough not to blindly believe the Whitmores would freely share information that didn’t clear their father of suspicion.

“Mind if I come along?” Ben asked in as offhand a manner as he could muster. Sierra seemed about to protest, so he added, “There are a number of ways to spell Blaine.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Ryan let his sister precede him out the door. They followed her down the narrow hall, with Ryan talking as they went. “I need you to understand we can only confirm whether she was a patient. Even the dead are protected by doctor/patient privilege.”

The narrow hall led to a small room with banks of file cabinets lining one wall. Ryan went directly to the first file cabinet and carefully flipped through the manila folders, then shrugged. “Nope. No Allison Blaine.”

Ben wasn’t ready to give up. “She was visiting her parents so it’s possible she came into the office with one of them. Their names were Barbara and Leonard Blaine.”

Ryan turned back to the files. “I don’t see their files, either. Did they live in town long?”

“Not even six months, I think,” Ben said.

“Must have been a healthy six months,” Ryan quipped.

Even if it meant revealing his relationship to Allison Blaine, Ben couldn’t ignore the third possibility. His mother could have brought one of his brothers to see a doctor.

“Is this where you keep the records for pediatric patients?” Ben asked, preparing to request the files be searched for the last name Nash.

“All those records are computerized,” Ryan answered. “We became a family practice when Sierra started working here two years ago. She and I are family physicians. Our father was an internist who treated patients eighteen and over.”

“Allison Blaine wasn’t treated here.” Sierra didn’t seem the least bit curious as to why he’d asked about pediatric patients. “Your lead is a dead end.”

“Not necessarily,” Ben said slowly. “He might have known her personally.”

“There’s no way to confirm that.” Ryan shut the file cabinet, almost as a signal that to the Whitmore siblings the case was closed.

“There could be.” Ben was trained to recognize other avenues that might yield results. “Your mother might know whether your father was acquainted with Allison Blaine. Is she alive?”

“Alive and well,” Ryan said.

“Mind telling me how I can get in touch with her?”

“Yes,” Sierra retorted sharply.

At the same time, her brother answered, “She moved into a retirement community after Dad died.”

“What’s the name of the place?” Ben asked.

“Hold on,” Sierra said before Ryan could supply the information. She moved closer to her brother so their shoulders were almost touching. “I don’t think we should tell him, Ryan.”

“If you don’t, I’ll find out from somebody else.” That was the absolute truth. A good reporter could always locate somebody who was eager to talk, no matter what the subject. “Why not tell me? What are you afraid of?”

Sierra stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ll upset her.”

“Then come with me,” he offered.

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re along,” Ben said, “you can make sure I’m on my best behavior.”

Ben would also increase his chances of getting Sierra to listen to the apology he’d been forming since her attitude toward him had gone from hot to cold.

“What do you say?” He recognized that she’d seen the wisdom in his reply and pressed his advantage. “When you finish up here, will you take me to her?”

She chewed on her lower lip, then glanced at her brother, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Her eyes once again fastened on Ben.

“I’ll meet you in the office around two,” she said.

MISSING TOURIST FOUND DEAD.

Sierra edged forward in the stiff-backed chair, getting closer to the grainy type displayed on the screen of the microfiche machine in the back corner of the public library. The smell of new carpeting mingled with the slightly musty smell of the old books shelved in the nearby reference section.

She’d come straight from her last patient of the day, determined to equip herself with as much information as possible about Allison Blaine before setting off for her mother’s retirement community with Ben Nash.

She read on.

A local businessman found the body of missing tourist Allison Blaine on the banks of the Lehigh River during the early-morning hours yesterday.

Frank Sublinski, the owner of Indigo River Rafters, had hiked downriver to try out a new fly-fishing spot when he stumbled across the body sprawled amid the rocks at the edge of the river.

Police Chief Alex Rawlings said Blaine did not appear to have drowned and that her injuries were consistent with a fall. “It’s pretty obvious she got too close to the edge and took a tumble,” Rawlings said.

The Riverview Overlook, which provides scenic views of the Lehigh River, is located on a cliff above the section of the river where the tourist’s body was discovered. Local residents have complained in recent months about the lack of a guide rail at the site, especially after the heavy spring rains eroded part of the cliff.

Blaine, a thirty-year-old Pittsburgh resident, had been visiting her parents since last week. Leonard and Barbara Blaine reported their daughter missing twenty-four hours before her body was discovered, spawning a massive search.

A camera was found near Blaine’s body. Rawlings said foul play is not suspected.

Sierra hadn’t remembered that Annie’s father had been the one to find the tourist’s body, but the rest of the article contained no surprises.

“Open and shut,” Sierra whispered aloud. It was easy to imagine Allison Blaine losing her footing on the eroded cliff and falling as she pointed her camera. “So what is Ben Nash doing here?”

She hadn’t found a story leading up to the incident, probably because the Indigo Springs Gazette was a weekly newspaper that went to press on Thursdays. By the time the paper could report that Allison Blaine was missing, her body would have been found.

She quickly scrolled through the rest of the roll of microfilm, locating only a brief item about the bouquets of flowers people had left in memoriam at the overlook. The article mentioned that Allison Blaine’s parents had recently moved to town. She already knew from Ben that they hadn’t stayed long.

Sierra pressed the print button on the machine, then hit Rewind. She was due to meet Ben in ten minutes. If she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t put it past him to leave without her. After placing the microfilm back in the plastic container, she headed to the research desk.

The young female librarian who’d helped her access the back issues of the Gazette was gone, replaced by an Indigo Springs institution. Louise Wiesneski had once directed Sierra to source material for her high school research papers. More recently, the librarian checked out books Sierra used to fuel her reading habit.

“What brings you here today?” Mrs. Wiesneski asked in an authoritative voice that had the unfortunate tendency to carry. A large woman, she even looked tall sitting down. “The latest mystery? Or one of those sports biographies you’re always reading?”

“Nothing that exciting.” Sierra set the microfilm on the counter and devised a noncommittal answer that would satisfy the nosy librarian. “I was just using the microfiche machine.”

Mrs. Wiesneski picked up the container and checked the label. “Hmm. Nobody’s looked at a back issue of the Gazette in months, yet you’re the second person today who requested this same roll of film.”

“This other person,” Sierra asked. “Was his name Ben Nash?”

“It most certainly was. Said he was a reporter for some newspaper in Pittsburgh. Do you know him?”

“Sort of,” Sierra said absently while she prepared to go against her instincts. The other times she’d been in the library, she’d kept her conversations with Mrs. Wiesneski brief to avoid gossiping. “Did he ask you any questions?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.” Mrs. Wiesneski lowered her too-loud voice, eager to share her information. “He wanted to know if I had a record of everyone who signed on to the Internet Friday morning. Well, you know how busy we get in here come tourist season. People are waiting to use the computers when we open at nine. Even if we did keep a record, which we don’t, I wouldn’t have told him, being as that’s privileged information.”

So Ben had been unsuccessful in tracking down the sender of the anonymous e-mail. Interesting but not unexpected.

“He also asked if I remembered anything about some tourist who died in Indigo Springs a long time ago,” Mrs. Wiesneski continued. “Now you know me, I remember everything. Except that was before my time.”

Sierra’s brows must have lifted, because the other woman kept talking. “I know sometimes it seems like I’ve been here forever, but it’s only been seventeen years. Now are you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

Not likely, Sierra thought.

“Curiosity,” Sierra said. “He asked my brother and me the same kinds of questions.”

The librarian nodded, but the speculative gleam in her eyes suggested she realized Sierra had dodged the question. Her attention wavered, and she nodded to a spot behind Sierra.

“Speak of the devil,” she said.

Sierra quickly turned around to see Ben Nash striding through the library straight toward them with his long, measured gait. Self-assurance poured off him, but she had the impression he’d be surprised if he knew he’d drawn every eye in the place.

“Please thank Betty for her help,” Sierra said hurriedly, referring to the other librarian by name, before quickly moving away from the desk.

Whatever Ben had to say to her would be said in private.

CHAPTER FOUR

BEN WATCHED Sierra Whitmore hurry past the shelf containing the new releases with her chin high and her steps clipped, her pretty mouth turned down at the corners.

He hadn’t expected her to be happy he’d tracked her down yet couldn’t help wishing for the warm smile she’d greeted him with earlier. Before she’d found out who he was and why he was in town.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“I thought we were meeting at my office.”

“I took a chance you’d be here instead.”

Her gaze slid to the reference desk, probably to check if the microfilm she’d been viewing was still visible. Even if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of the canister, he could have easily figured out she’d come to the library to go through back issues of the Gazette. He’d done the same earlier that morning in his quest to find information both about the case and her father.

Her chin lifted even higher when she regarded him again. She’d shed the traditional doctor’s white coat, revealing a red top that added vibrancy to her complexion and a skirt that showed off a pair of long, beautiful legs. She was undeniably attractive, but it was her underlying spunk that drew him to her, hinting at facets of her he’d yet to discover.

“There’s something you should know about me,” she said with spirit. “I never enter any situation unprepared. I like to know what I’m up against.”

“Totally understandable,” Ben said. “I can give you the phone number of the Tribune and the name of my managing editor if you like.”

From the slight widening of her eyes, he surmised she’d thought to check out his story of what had happened to Allison Blaine, but it hadn’t occurred to her to verify his credentials.

“I can find the phone number myself, thank you very much,” she said.

Even on guard and distrusting, she was polite. Yet he was more interested in what was under the stuffy facade. He’d love to get another glimpse of the woman he’d kissed the night before. That wasn’t going to happen unless he could make amends.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he began.

She put a finger to her lips and cut her eyes at the exit. The library was fairly busy, with a few of the people perusing the bestsellers regarding them with open curiosity. Sierra led the way outside into the April sunshine.

“I’d rather the entire town didn’t know what you’re doing here.” She spoke in the same soft voice she’d used inside the charming brick building even though the library sat atop a small hill a fair distance from the street.

“I’m not planning to keep it a secret.”

“You kept it from me last night,” she retorted.

“That’s why I was apologizing.” He scratched the back of his neck when she didn’t respond, wondering what he could say to get her to understand. “In my defense, I didn’t know who you were when we made plans to get together.”

“Oh, really?” Disbelief dripped from her voice.

“Really. It was only when the bartender mentioned you were a doctor that I put it together.”

“Is that when you decided to pull one over on me?”

“If that’s what I was trying to do, why didn’t I grill you about your father?”

The steel in her expression didn’t melt, not even a little. “That’s no excuse for not telling me you were a reporter.”

He remembered how crestfallen she’d looked when her ex-boyfriend had entered the bar, prompting him to temporarily put aside his investigation. “I didn’t think it was the right time to tell you.”

“You thought wrong,” she said.

She turned from him and walked away from the library, toward the sidewalk that cut a swath through the mix of delightful old buildings and new storefronts that made up downtown Indigo Springs. Some of the trees had started to blossom, giving the air a floral scent. He fell into step beside her.

“There are a few things you need to know before we go see my mother,” she announced without looking at him.

“Shoot,” he said.

“My parents grew up next door to each other. They were married for thirty-five years. My mother was devastated when my father died. She says she can’t remember a time she didn’t love him.”

She fell silent as they maneuvered around a man in khaki shorts and hiking shoes taking a photo of a woman in front of a pretty stone building. When they were free of the pair, she pointed across the street to a lush green space shaded with tall trees. It boasted park benches, a children’s play area with wooden structures and an amphitheater set well back from the road.

“That park is the one the town’s renaming for my father,” she said. “My mother’s very proud he’ll be honored in that way. The whole family is.”

Ben had a better grasp of why the town was honoring Dr. Whitmore since going through recent issues of the Indigo Springs Gazette at the library. He’d found an article about the upcoming memorial that detailed the late doctor’s involvement in a staggering number of charitable causes and civic organizations.

“I’m not trying to take anything away from your father’s memory,” he said gently. “I just want to figure out why somebody sent me that e-mail.”

She angled her head and the sunlight caught the highlights in her brown hair. He glimpsed the warmth beneath her cool exterior and wished he could turn back the clock to last night. He considered apologizing again, but didn’t see how it would do any good.

“Did you consider that whoever sent the e-mail had something against my father?” she asked in a clipped voice.

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